


Thrill of the Match

by OwlsWithFins



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: But he's starting to realize he might like Flint too, Enemies to Lovers, First Kiss, Hogwarts Era, Like, M/M, Prompt Fic, Quidditch, Rare Pairings, Wood really likes Quidditch, except that he can be really dense sometimes, really dense, request
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-02
Updated: 2017-07-02
Packaged: 2018-11-22 07:23:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,116
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11375364
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OwlsWithFins/pseuds/OwlsWithFins
Summary: “Of course I’m in love with you. Why do you think I risked my life to save your sorry arse?”





	Thrill of the Match

**Author's Note:**

> Hiya! This was written upon anon request using the prompt in the summary <3 Hope ya enjoy!

Oliver Wood had always dreamt about Quidditch. He dreamt about winning, and he dreamt about the perfect strategies. Some nights he was in the match, fighting tooth and nail to protect the goal, while other nights he was merely an observer at a game, whooping and booing in the stands (those dreams were just as invigorating). Sometimes it was hard to tell if he was dreaming at all. Losing while asleep stung just as badly as it did while awake, and his moonlit wins sent a grin hurtling across his face as if they were real. 

Wood had always dreamt about Quidditch-–but never quite like this.

Lately, his dreams had been plagued by the Slytherin Captain’s face. Sure, he’d dreamt of Marcus Flint in the past-–as was to be expected of Wood’s most challenging foe–-but never in such rapid succession or in such vivid detail. Gryffindor hadn’t played Slytherin in months and likely wouldn’t again until the final match, yet Flint was all Oliver could think about. He was starting to wonder if he was losing his mind until he came to a simple conclusion: Marcus Flint was part of the thrill of the game.

Of course, Quidditch needed no extra assistance when it came to thrills; every match came with its own lifetime supply of racing hearts and pumping blood. But Marcus Flint had been his adversary for so long that Oliver had come to equate the adrenaline of Quidditch with Flint himself. It was a natural association to make, Wood rationalized, but the anticipation of their next encounter made him restless and unable to sleep. He itched for the rush of facing off against the Slytherin captain–-even seeing him in the hallways made Wood’s heartbeat accelerate-–and the desire to best him became nearly all-consuming.

When the Slytherin team marched onto the pitch a few minutes into Gryffindor’s practice, Oliver threw his head back with a groan. His teammates touched the ground, and he joined them after a few colorful swears. “Flint…” he said warningly. 

Oliver sought out his rival, walking forward with his best we-are-not-doing-this-today-and-if-you-disagree-I-will-skewer-you-with-my-broomstick-(or-maybe-a-less-precious-piece-of-equipment) expression. Wood spotted the captain at the front of the snake pack. He was wearing a malicious grin that put his crooked molars on display. Those teeth had played a prominent role in Oliver’s dreams, and the Gryffindor’s breath caught in his throat.

This was it, he realized. They were finally face-to-face. Flint’s grin faltered when Oliver’s foreboding countenance turned to wide-eyed staring. Wood was too excited by his own brilliance to care.

“It’s our day to practice, Flint,” he said, forcing his previous anger into his tone.

Flint’s grin returned full force. “Professor Snape overruled the schedule. We’ve got a match on Saturday, and he wants us to be ready.”

Oliver snorted. “It’s Hufflepuff. Snape must not have much faith in you lot if he’s usurping the schedule for that.”

Flint growled, stepping forward menacingly. “Nothing wrong with being extra prepared.”

They were only an arm’s length away when Wood took a step as well. “Except when it interferes with Gryffindor’s practice.” Now they were close enough that Oliver’s entire field of vision contained the Slytherin captain–-just like in his dreams.

Flint’s eyes flashed. “We have the pitch, Wood. Get your lousy team out of the way or we’ll make them move.”

Oliver tilted his head to the side. “We’re not budging. If you want to practice today, you can play us.” The rest of the Gryffindor and Slytherin teams whispered their opinions at that, but the captains were focused only on each other. Wood’s eyes glinted, daring Flint to say no. “Unless you’re afraid.”

Flint’s nostrils flared. “We can beat Gryffindor scum with our eyes cursed shut.”

Oliver smiled innocently. “Funny, since I always thought it was the other team getting cursed when you’re on the pitch.”

Flint cracked his knuckles with a sour look before extending a hand. Wood shook it, adrenaline pulsing through his veins at the touch. Flint nodded at Pucey, and the game commenced.

Oliver instantly claimed his spot as Keeper, eyes already scanning the pitch. His heart hammered in his chest as he batted the Quaffle out of the way for the first time. It was a feeling he loved almost as much as he loved seeing Flint’s angry face after the tiny victory. Wood shrugged, smiling shamelessly as Flint huffed and circled back to chase after the Quaffle.

The game continued as usual until it became clear something was wrong with the Bludger. It was only targeting Gryffindor players, and while Fred and George were battling it valiantly, the disadvantage was starting to take its toll.

“Flint!” Oliver yelled as Fred was nearly knocked off his broom. “Your Bludger’s been tampered with!”

Flint only grinned wider from his spot high above the pitch. Just as he was about to answer, the Bludger came his way. It looked to be shooting for Harry who was only a few feet above, but the Slytherin captain was in its path.

“Flint, look out!”

Wood’s warning came too late, and the Bludger hurtled into Flint’s chin with a cracking sound that sent a chill through the Gryffindor’s spine. Oliver watched, almost in a daze, as Flint’s body sailed toward the ground, limbs limply trailing through the air. 

Why was no one saving him? There was a ringing in Oliver’s ears as he watched helplessly. The Slytherins weren’t diving to catch their captain’s falling form. Did they not notice? Did they not care? Without sparing a thought for the Quaffle or his vow to protect the hoops, Oliver dove.

Wind whistled past him, rustling his Quidditch robes. It had been a long time since he’d even attempted a dive like this. His course was too steep, too sharp. If he didn’t pull up soon he’d die alongside his rival. For a moment, he considered the perfect symmetry of it. But then his musings were interrupted because he had reached Flint’s rapidly descending body. He snatched the Chaser up by the torso, jerking the tip of his broom only enough to keep them from nose diving into the dirt. The maneuver couldn’t keep them airborne, however, especially with Flint’s added weight. They toppled to the ground, somersaulting in a clumsy tangle of limbs.

Blinking away the pain of the fall, Oliver retracted himself from the mess until he was leaning over Flint’s unconscious form. If it wasn’t for the blood pouring down his neck, the Slytherin would have looked like he was sleeping. He seemed softer like this, and Oliver’s thumb gently brushed his strong jawline. This felt wrong. There was no situation when Flint should be this close to Wood without fire in his eyes. Oliver’s heart wasn’t racing and his blood wasn’t pumping-–or at least, not that he was aware of. He felt empty, to the point that he barely heard the celebratory whooping of the Slytherins. Apparently, they’d won in the moments since Flint’s fall. For once, Oliver didn’t care.

When the Slytherins touched down around him, Pucey took over, lifting Flint in his arms to take him to Pomfrey. Wood couldn’t help but feel like the younger player didn’t deserve to play the caring friend when he’d almost let his captain die and then finished the match afterwards. Of course, if it had been any other situation, Oliver would have done the same. If it had been any other situation, he wouldn’t have left his Keeper post for anything. 

But he had. And he couldn’t for the life of him figure out why.

x*x*X*x*x

Oliver Wood had always dreamt about Quidditch, but that night, something was different. When Flint’s face appeared in his dream, it wasn’t sneering. It was peaceful, with eyes closed like they’d been after his fall and a soft smile on his lips. They were nice lips-–the kind that made you understand why people made such a fuss about kissing (Oliver had often wondered why people insisted on locking lips when they could be reading Quidditch magazines, but he’d never bothered to ask, as he was busy reading said Quidditch magazines). Oliver wished the boy would open his eyes and smile a real smile, with a mouthful of those adorable crooked teeth.

When Oliver woke from his dream in the middle of the night, his mind was reeling. It kept getting stuck on the practice match from earlier that day. His teammates had been appropriately upset about the loss, and they all seemed to notice something was off about their captain. Oliver hadn’t even tried to fake any emotion. He’d been enthused, angry, and downright jubilant enough in the past to warrant a break, just this once.

But that didn’t keep him from wondering what the hell was wrong with him. He shouldn’t have felt nothing after a loss against Slytherin. He shouldn’t have left his post. He shouldn’t have felt so much sorrow when his rival had been injured. 

But he had. And he’d finally figured out why.

 x*x*X*x*x

Without changing out of his pajamas or giving a thought to curfew, Wood had climbed out of bed and snuck out of his room. Now, he was standing beside Flint’s hospital bed, breathless and frazzled.

“Flint,” he whispered urgently. When the boy didn’t wake, Oliver began to feel awkward, realizing how ridiculous this was. But he’d made it this far, so there was no point in turning back now. “Flint.” This time he tugged at the Slytherin’s shoulder. A groan sounded in response. _“Flint.”_

“…wha?”

Wood rolled his eyes, wondering if he truly was insane. Maybe he was wrong and this wasn’t the reason for his feelings at the match. Maybe he should just go back to bed and forget this whole thing…

…except that his heart was beating like it did at a Quidditch match and his fingers tingled where they’d made contact with Flint’s shoulder.

“It’s Wood,” he tried again. “I need to talk to you.”

The Slytherin squeezed his eyes shut as if he was trying to make the intruder disappear through sheer willpower. “Go away,” he mumbled. “‘m tryin’ t’sleep.”

“Flint, wake up, you stupid git,” Oliver hissed. “I’m trying to confess my feelings for you.” The moment the words left his mouth, he decided that yes, he was in fact insane. Making his insanity known to the enemy, however, managed to snap Flint’s eyes open.

“Wood, what the hell is going on?” he growled. “If this is some sort of bloody Gryffindor scheme, I’ll bash your skull in with a Beater’s bat.”

Oliver wondered if perhaps that fate was preferable to what he was planning on doing. “It’s not a scheme,” he forced out. “Dammit, this would be so much easier if it was.”

Flint looked truly confused then, as if he’d never predicted this turn of events. If Wood was being entirely honest, he hadn’t either. “You expect me,” Flint said slowly, “to believe that you’re in love with me.”

“Of course I’m in love with you,” Oliver said, throwing his hands in the air. “Why do you think I risked my life to save your sorry arse?” He didn’t point out that he’d realized that very thing only moments ago.

Flint shrugged, wincing as the movement shifted his bandages. “You’re a bloody Gryffindor. Figured being a goddamn hero all the time came with the territory.” He narrowed his eyes. “If you think this is going to help you beat us next time to make up for your loss today–”

“If I hadn’t saved you from becoming a permanent part of the pitch, we would have won fair and square,” Oliver fired back.

Flint smiled sleepily–-the kind of smile Wood had wished for in his dream. “’Fair and square’ isn’t exactly the Slytherin game, Wood.”

“Turned out bloody well for you, didn’t it?” Oliver said sarcastically, nodding at the bandages on Flint’s chin.

The Slytherin snickered for a moment before sobering. With a curious light in his eyes, he reached up to cup the back of Wood’s neck. “It hasn’t failed me yet.” 

As Flint pulled him into a kiss, Oliver’s eyes widened–before quickly falling shut. Wood became wrapped up in the warm pressure of those lips against his. WIth a jolt, he realized the contact rivaled the adrenaline of a Quidditch match.

Of course, Wood would never admit that to anyone. For all they knew, his dreams about the Slytherin captain were purely strategy-based, and nothing-–not even kissing the crooked-toothed boy below him-–could match the thrill of a game. 

As they deepened the kiss, Wood decided they didn’t know much at all.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Please leave your thoughts below and visit me at owlswithfins.tumblr.com for more HP content <3


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